A Fin de Cuentas
by contrecoup
Summary: A few scatterings of one shots fueled by some of my head canon about Raul Tejada, including but not limited to the following: A) He got his quick hands from jacking cars; B) He got his quick wit from his grandmother; and C) for everything in between, snark makes an excellent plaster.
1. Callado

"Hey Raul, you bring it?"

It wasn't a question.

"Yeah, yeah, it's all in the truck."

There wasn't too many of them tonight. Four, maybe five guys. Standing in the glow of his 23' Highwayman's headlights, it was hard to tell. Not that they needed many more than that for the job. Too many hands and mouths going off and the only thing that'd get done would be waking up half the town.

These weren't exactly professional types he was dealing with after all. And neither was he.

The boys splintered off, circling the trucks, moving in tandem to scoop up their tools. Socket wrenches, crowbars, a car jack or two – it was all there, everything they needed for the night. With dusty hands imprinted with grit, their fingers curled around the handles with a familiarity that made them each smile.

Raul clicked off the headlights. His friends disappeared, each winking back into sight when they turned on their prospective flashlights. Blinding streaks cut through the darkness, whipping back and forth. They shined them in each other's faces, laughing and stumbling backwards when little fireworks of color went off in their eyes.

"Hey, hey! Callado!" Raul hissed.

It should have only taken them five minutes or so to trek up the hill toward the old Hinderson place, but his guys kept tripping over themselves, apparently needing a goddamn searchlight to prevent them from falling flat on their asses. They'd stopped hollering when they fell at least, after he'd given the first few a five-fingered reminder straight to the face that they had to stay quiet.

No lights on. One good sign, at least.

He signaled for the others to follow him, bending his knees and moving low and fast across the yard. There were three cars sitting out in the driveway; he dropped to the ground beside the Mercedes.

Damn thing even smelled like a new car from the outside. He slid a finger along the door. It sparkled slightly when caught in the bobbing light of his flashlight. Was that chrome in the paint?

He smirked. Old man Hinderson had good taste.

For all their lack of decorum, the crew worked fast; one of the reasons he continued to allow them along on these ventures of his. They made short work of the alarm system, cut a few wires here, jimmied a few switches there. Even managed to avoid nicking the door frame this time, a mistake that'd cost them 450 on their last bit of cargo.

When everything was nipped, tucked and ready to roll out, he slipped into the driver seat. He only trusted himself for this portion. He took a moment to breath it all in, give the custom leather arm rests a good squeeze, get the seat just the way he liked it. It was like slipping on a new pair of Air Jordans, the kind you had to talk the saleslady into letting you try on when she didn't like the look of you. And you just let yourself sit there for a moment, feeling your feet soak into them, moving your toes around a bit like you're settling in.

Best damn part of this gig, he hummed, and reached for the gear shift.

Without cracking the headlights, riding the pedals with a practiced dexterity so that the engine didn't so much as purr, he slid the car out of old man Hinderson's driveway like it was going for a dip in the pool. As soon as he reached the main road, he took no time screeching the thing up to sixty. He liked to think he could hear the asphalt cough behind him.


	2. Abuelita

Raul'd always admired his grandmother. With leathered skin and hands cracked from the earth, she'd puttered around that ranch of theirs since long before he was born, content to live out her days on the same land she'd perfected the art of cultivating her entire life.

The new and novel didn't scare her so much as it held virtually no interest, no place in the world like the one she'd constructed for herself.

She'd been raised in the old ways: hard work, determination. Where you carve a name for yourself or you die trying, and there weren't any alternatives; nothing to ponder or fret about unless it was making a ruckus right in front of you, disrupting your schedule. So much beyond her fingertips was unnecessary, she couldn't be bothered.

And then there was her family.

The center.

All that mattered, really.

Around the town, in front of their neighbors, she did her business with the mask of a sullen old woman, speaking little and walking fast.

Only to come home and snap at whomever first walked through the door.

"On no no, gracias Rafaela. I _wanted_ dirt on my freshly cleaned floor."

"Raul, your ass is making such a lovely imprint in the couch, I almost feel bad asking you to get up and go do your damn chores."

And as quickly as you could apologize, she'd huff and turn back to the stove (in which she was solely in charge of, not even Raul's mother could approach it when she was on duty), waving you away even while she continued to whisper obscenities beneath her breath to the burners.

From an early age, Raul'd gotten into the habit of teasing her. He was the only one who dared. For a four foot tall woman, her voice could carry the bite of the devil itself when she got angry enough.

He'd egg her on playfully enough until she finally bubbled over, but slip out of the kitchen before she could catch him, raising some menacing utensil and shaking her fists.

His parents told him to lay off. That was no way to treat an old woman. He should be ashamed.

He didn't tell him how much he actually admired her. Walking around on legs that old, still holding her own against anything that approached her. Still raring to fight, young, old – it didn't matter.

He could only shake his head. What the hell was she even fighting for anymore? It made him laugh. Maybe that's why he always joked with her.

Besides, she was the only one who didn't look at him like he was some kind of criminal when he came home late at night. He'd walk into the empty kitchen, young enough to be proud but smart enough to be quiet about it, sometimes to find her sitting there, reading or knitting or whatever the hell.

She'd berate him. Just like she would during the day. _"Raul, __¿dónde puñeta has estado? ¡Estaba con estas putas otra vez, yo sé! Justo como tu padre, dios mios, y una otra cosa... _

Nothing worse, nothing better. Like it wasn't any different.

And he'd joke back and make his way up the stairs before she could scramble up to lob one of those knitting needles at him (it'd happened before; he knew it hurt).

Damn old punta...he'd smile and collapse into his mattress.

His parents were _nearly_ as interesting. Too practical for his tastes. Too short-sighted. Odd that he'd love his grandmother for those exact same qualities.

But she'd already had her life. She'd made her opportunities growing up in the old ways before the rest of the world started to catch up and grow around their little ranch in the middle of the desert.

There was a city out there now. Highways and buzzing cars and millionaire ranchers scooping up what was left of their wilderness and propping plantations wherever something could grow.

They were becoming a minority. Or at least, that's what it felt like.

And his parents were content to hold out as long as they could. But they weren't willing to fight. No, what they lacked was imagination. They accepted their position in the world.

He didn't.

He'd hit those yuppies where it hurt. Protecting his land. Hell, he wasn't even sure if he wanted to stay on this ranch. Hadn't signed himself over to that kind of predictable living yet.

But this land belonged to the Tejada's.

And that meant it was his.


	3. El Que Hace la Paga

Factoring in the total number of cells, the fact that each cell had at least two benches, from what he could see, and the police station's current occupancy – Raul performed some quick finger tip math and figured there had to be roughly two hundred and thirty seven places that he could be sitting at this present moment. Odds had it that at least one of those seats was more comfortable than his. He'd made a few comments about the accommodations to the officers that had brought him in, half in earnest complaint and half trying to lighten the mood; they didn't appreciate his attempt. Might be the reason why he'd earned the right to this stump of a seat, he wondered. Bracing his back against the cool cement blocked wall, he unfolded his legs from beneath him, taking an entire bench to himself. His temporary roommates didn't appreciate that either, but fuck it, his parents weren't coming to get him till morning. Might as well make himself comfortable in the meantime.

_If_ that was possible.

His dreams flickered like low-quality film in front of his eyes as he day dreamed and straggled back through the evening's events. Him and his buddies hadn't even been harassing anybody, at least not tonight anyway, just enjoying some dime store tequila and chatting up the ladies they'd brought along with them, acquired at some party or another, with legs long enough to make your mouth water and skirts that left little to the imagination.

But the cops they'd grown used to, the ones that, as teenagers, they had slipped sweaty twenties to, the very last in their pockets, saved special for the occasion so that their night of adulterations would go unnoticed, had all been replaced by a new stoic breed, a kind that frowned upon anyone under the age of 30 having fun past 10 o'clock.

'Disturbing the peace' his ass. Even if him and his buddies had been dressed to the nines, suits buttoned all the way up to their eyeballs with class action and manners dripping out the cuffs, the cops would have picked them up for overdressing. They'd write up a new law if there one did not already exist in the little bookies clocked in at their hips.

Too much paperwork. How'd they ever manage to do it all? You'd think they'd get sick of it and just let them go on their way when they laughed on the streets and fell on the sidewalks.

And so maybe he'd had one or two more shots than he'd intended - he'd meandered with the membrane of his limit often enough, he had it down to a science - but he went over the line anyway because hell pulling at the fields and the cows and the ranch got to your head after a while if you didn't unwind a bit, you know? Gotta numb yourself from your tongue to your toes to get out that pain deep down in your marrow and your joints all limbered up for the next day, or else you'd end up ripping yourself out by the roots.

So what if he'd been sloshing about in his shoes by the time the cops stopped him and his gang? I suppose it'd been the cop's job too to take the bottle out of a honest worker's hand? Well fuck it, that's not how Raul played, and he sure'n hell was going to make that ass know it. Something about that guy's tone riled up the alchohol-induced frenzy inside him, but the swing he took only served to dizzy him up enough to land him on his ass. Even at night, the asphalt still burned from the Mexican sun.

'Dumb enough to try and punch a cop,' he could hear Rafaela now. Had he been that cynical when he was 11 too?

Ah who was he kidding, of course he had. You grow up mimicking your family, don't you?

Too bad his parents didn't share their same sense of humor. He guessed this was supposed to be punishment. Leave him in the slammer for a night, let him think over what he's done, come out bright and fresh and ready to be a decent member of society by morning time.

More like tedious...and he hated tedious, so he guessed they'd been right about the punishment aspect.

He sighed and folded his arms in closer to his chest, the first inklings of how stupid he'd been finally wetting his mind like dew.

Fuck it...this was too much effort. He could be sleeping at home right now, or out with the guys again, or doing virtually anything else in the world other than bruising his tailbone on a police bench.

When he slid into his parents car the next morning, he'd already made up his mind. Though his parents both looked his way and paused as he entered, neither said a word, and he didn't attempt to make conversation. He was perfectly content slumping into the backseat with all the grace of a disgruntled teenager.

He cracked his back as he headed up the stairs, stretching. His bed might as well have been a drug, how good it felt when he collapsed onto the spring mattress.

This...he liked this. Maybe he should try to stick with more this from now on.

Not like this was any sort of resolution, or some dramatic change of heart. Pure stubbornness tugged his brow down tight across his forehead. No, no it was more like...a begrudging admittance. That he didn't care too much for how annoying this whole 'troubled youth' routine had a habit of being.

's not like he ever really felt home amongst his buddies anyway. Naw, the whole finding acceptance bit, or worse, surrounding himself with some bastardized substitution for a family hadn't exactly been the selling point for his entrance into the gang scene. He'd wanted a change of pace from ranch living and he'd found it. The others could carve out their own Robing Hood-esque meanings into whatever they wanted; he viewed the world in much cleaner terms. To him, it was simple - getting attached was stupid, pathetic even, at least to things that didn't ultimately matter.

But, then again, hadn't his teachers always told him he was smarter than those guys anyway? That he shouldn't limit himself by hanging around the people he did? He thought they'd just been trying to reel him in like the other straight edges, talk up his ego until he sat straight in his chair and handed in A's so the school would look like they did all the work. But maybe they had a point.

He could do it, you know. He sniffed. He wasn't sure who he was talking to at this point. When things quieted down, he was the only one of his crew he knew of that found himself in front of a book instead of the television. Hell, he probably knew more than all of them combined. And hadn't he spent all that time at the library when he was younger those times his parents couldn't afford a babysitter?

If he just had enough sense to show up for the damn tests, maybe sit down for a bit read over the stuff before hand, he probably knew most of the answers anyway, or he could figure them out. He was bright like that. Everyone had always said he was bright. Even his grandma that one time he-

A pebble hit his window. How romantic, he thought. He pushed himself up.

His friend Marcus waved at him, standing by the bushes below with a few of the guys. He covered his mouth with his palm, quietly calling up towards his window.

"Hey pendajo you up for another job?"

Raul chewed the idea over for a minute, so long he was afraid they'd think he'd forgotten their question.

This was one of those defining moments. He could feel it like a fist on his heart, like a buzzing under his skin as they drummed along the cracked wood and fresh paint of his window sill. He could still smell the aroma. It made his breath stale.

He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, not so much fighting to make decision as he was imagining the route he'd already chosen. He saw it spiral out, darting between his fingers, unraveling like a spool of thread up, up past his window over the barn cutting straight through the cloudless, Mexican sky.

His head fell.

"...Be down in ten." He pushed off the window sill.


End file.
